I’d be squinting, barely able to see, to see anything beyond just too much light, like a more-than-slightly too-big smile from a too-eager god; just too much light, and I’d be running too, always running and squinting and sweating, don’t forget the sweating, running and squinting and sweating through an evacuated city, just me, just me trying to see more and run more and touch that that, that always always just just elusive something receding in the blinding, boiling, empty, urban quadrangles blazing on the perimeter of wakefulness, the sun already a refracted parallelogram singeing and soaking supine me on the mattress in the moment between Nautical and Civil Twilight.

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